


Displaced in a Boat

by AfterArtist



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bad Spelling & Grammar, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Floris | Fundy Angst, Floris | Fundy Has Abandonment Issues, Floris | Fundy Has Daddy Issues, Floris | Fundy Needs A Hug, Floris | Fundy-centric, Fox Hybrid Floris | Fundy, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Ghostbur, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo is a Good Friend, Shapeshifter Floris | Fundy, The Author Regrets Everything, Then comfort, Trans Floris | Fundy, author is a Floris | Fundy Apologist, hurt..., i wanted to make a cool story but then I punched it it angst, no beta we die like wilbur, phil is a bad grandpa..., sally the fish - Freeform, sally was a good mum, unless, wilbur Soot was a bad dad but he’s getting better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:07:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29506656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AfterArtist/pseuds/AfterArtist
Summary: The first time it happened was the second morning after Wilbur’s death.Fundy discovers a coping mechanism, but what happens when it gets out of handIs it just that? Just a coping mechanism?Crossposted on Wattpad
Relationships: Floris | Fundy & Everyone, Floris | Fundy & Ranboo, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Floris | Fundy/5up, Floris | Fundy/Everyone
Comments: 4
Kudos: 134





	Displaced in a Boat

The first time it happened was the second morning after Wilbur’s death.  
Fundy had taken an old boat, dust settling neatly on the wooden hull, he wasn’t quite sure who it had belonged to, out to the river, a habit he had picked up after his Mum had left. The rocking of the boat as the ores gently bumped against the side, the paddles tugged at by hidden seagrass, was calming, he grew up with this feeling, of water under his slighted frame, carrying him safely. Coming to a rest he let his being relax, his mind finally grasping the chance to process all the bloodshed mere hours before, the taste of ash bitter on his tongue.

He wasn’t exactly sure when, but he found himself on the riverbank, his tail curled around his legs as he sat in the cool mud, yet, glancing up he was still there, eyes listless as it watched over the cool water, in the boat. He was still in the boat, how was he still in the boat? Panic had filled through him the first time it happened, conducted by the fear of death still, the thought that he had died during the fight, he was dead, dead like his father, filled his mind, clogging his lungs. He stood mere inches from his own body, a corpse? Fundy eventually grew used to it, the feeling of non existence, like resting on a lakebed, surrounded by clear blue pool, the ground under his feet and sun far up, untouchable, the feeling of knowing he wouldn’t make it up before his breath runs out, but being in those few seconds of awe, seeing beauty around him. But not yet, here and now, all he could do was wail into the wind. 

Disassociation, Out of body experience, Astral projection, those words were the first thing that came to mind, filtering through his head a week after his first experience.  
Rebuilding the ashen land had kept his thoughts from him, keeping his eyes focused on the remains of his home, hands, now coated in blood soaked soot, busy, but as he sat on the cool stone floor, sleep having slipped from his grasp hours ago, the sleeping forms of Tommy and Tubbo feet away, Jack to his left, he allowed himself to think.  
Those words had fallen through his head that night, questions, yet as he tried to fit them into place with his experience, it was like trying to push a large, jagged square through a circular hole, they fit if you push hard enough, but not perfectly, not quite right. He didn’t end up sleeping that night.

The next time it happened, he had gotten in an argument with Phil, hot tears bubbling behind his eyes as he stormed out. At some point he had lost control of his more humanoid form, his once pale skin being replaced with fiery fur and jagged teeth, his claws clicking against the wooden dock. He couldn’t even remember what started the argument. He had dragged The boat into the river, letting his paws fumble on the Alge covered pebbles as he pushed it into the current, the overly sweet smell of the greenery burning his nose, salt water blurring his vision. He rowed until the world around him was unrecognisable, the old wood of his boat gently hitting the bottom of the river as he looped a rope around a small stump. Leaning back into the sun soaked boat, Fundy let out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes, letting the sun warm his fur, drying the tears he didn’t deserve to cry.

Upon opening his eyes he was sitting on the bank, the sight of his own orange fur, his small figure, sitting peacefully in the boat across from himself, odly calming. Standing up he brushed down his pants, more out of habit then the actual need, his ears pricking at the soft sound of bird calls, wind tugging at his fur.  
It was calm here, the world seemed muffled, but not dull, he could make out the rustling of the leaves clearly, yet they seemed far off. Glancing into the river the lack of a reflection startled him for only a second, last time he had fallen into a panick strong enough to snap himself out of the state before gaining a chance to experiment, but now he felt his body relax into the feeling. It was as he was floating, he could feel the sun warmed grass under his pawpads, the cool breeze blowing gently, yet he didn’t at the same time, the sounds fading when they gained octave, as if disappearing to suit his whim.  
By the time he felt his self return to his body, his fur had receded, slightly sunburned skin and splintered, aching hands all remaining.

After the fith time he had contemplated asking Phil about it, his Grandfather once mentioning various mental conditions passed through the family, clearly blaming Wilburs phycotic break on so,etching referred to as ‘the voices’, mentioning one of Fundy’s uncles along the way. Possibly he would know about his Displacement, a term Fundy had coined the third time around, lacking any better words to explain it to himself. Yet, upon bringing it up Phil had given him a look, he hated that look, memories of his father during the first war sprung to his mind, a sickening feeling of being pitied filling his churning stomach.  
‘Why do you ask?’  
‘Oh, no reason, I just, read about it in a book I found while clearing Manberg.’

The next time had Fundy breaking down again.  
Out of curiosity Fundy had placed a few blocks, simple planks, the wood felt coarse and real under his hands, more so then anything else when he was Displaced, not expecting anything to actually happen, after all, this was all in his mind, no? The shock of tripping over said blocks after coming back to his boat, when had it become his, had stunned him for a few minutes, mind burning, his face in the dirt where he had landed. He hadn’t been surprised by the sight of the blocks after coming back from Displacement, chalking it up to hallucinations, but he felt that, the dull throbbing in his shin proof enough, the splinters caught in the fabric of his pant legs.  
On the way back home his head started to swim, thoughts drowning him, thick and heavy, he couldn’t tell anyone about this. Fear and mistrust was already widespread across the nations, the after math of the destruction saturating teh air with hate for others, hiding one more thing would be nothing, his little secret.

His little escape.


End file.
